


The Lovers, The Dreamers

by nialleritdidnthappen



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Harry, Dogs, Falling In Love, Fate & Destiny, M/M, Musician Niall, Puppy Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 05:46:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12292551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nialleritdidnthappen/pseuds/nialleritdidnthappen
Summary: Two lonely hearts, canine mischief, an “accidental” tangling of leashes, and then... two hearts that aren’t quite so lonely anymore.





	The Lovers, The Dreamers

**Author's Note:**

> Hit a brick wall in finishing up chapter three of A Light to Guide Us Home (it’s sooo close. I hate this feeling but my brain is just like NOPE with that chapter at the moment, and I don’t want to post it until I’m happy with it)... SO. Here’s a narry drabble I’ve been sitting on for a long time and decided to dust off for all you dog-lovers out there. 
> 
> Story pretty much took shape while I was listening to The O'Neill Brothers Group cover of “Rainbow Connection” on Spotify :) Y’all can listen before reading, if you want... I think it sets the tone pretty nicely ❤️

Harry likes Lakeview Park because it’s the perfect place to paint. And Butler likes Lakeview Park because it’s the perfect place to run. 

Ever since Harry adopted the floppy-furred Irish setter, it’s been impossible to paint in the apartment. He hardly gets a single stroke on the canvas before Butler catches sight of a squirrel scurrying up a tree outside Harry’s window and barrels across the carpet, hurdling over couch and coffee table and kitchen counter to post himself paws-up on the glass and intimidate the living daylights out of his poor, innocent prey... sending easel, brushes, the full spectrum of oil paint, a tin of grimy water and an extremely disgruntled owner crashing to the floor along the way. 

Harry thought the biggest financial burden to come out of this adoption would be dog food. Not rugs to cover the rainbow splatter that now permanently stains the floor of his rentedflat.  

But he can never stay mad at this disastrous bundle of love for long. So Butler wins, and Harry concedes to bring his painting to the great outdoors.  

In what effectively becomes their new daily routine, Harry packs up whichever brushes and colors and helpful tools he needs for that day’s canvas in his backpack, leashes up the always-overeager dog and sets out for the park, which by reputation initially promised enough wide open spaces for Butler to burn off some of that energy and get in plenty of exercise. 

Much to Butler’s chagrin, Harry insists on making a stop along the journey every morning at seven-thirty on the dot to a tiny, brick-front coffee shop with delicious aromas and smiling baristas, so he can grab a steamy cup of coffee. With summer dwindling down to its homestretch, Harry finds himself in need of just a little extra warmth to stay comfy in the early morning air. 

Harry’s pleased to note that Butler quickly stops whining about it when the baristas begin tossing him a bite or two of biscotti... but he pretends not to see. Wants the pup to think he has a little secret of his own. 

As it turns out, Harry grows to love Lakeview Park just as much as Butler does. The scenery inspires images upon his canvas of a soft, airy, serene quality, an unexpected but pleasant change from his tendency toward still life, portraits, and landscapes that, however precise, are shrouded in a dull injustice having been painted indoors. Now, with cool breezes guiding his steady hands and silky brushes, his own tiny lake shimmers with the same vibrance as the real one just across the field. Miniature oak trees with little pointillist leaves seem to rustle in the wind he somehow captures with a wet-on-wet wash of periwinkle and just a whisper of yellow. And the ruffle of red fur there in the corner of the canvas seems to bark at every scampering rabbit who dares a mad dash across the freshly cut grass.

Which, of course, is the exact scene he watches every time he glances up from his work. He sets his brush gingerly into its water tin, lays the canvas aside, breathes clean air and hums contentedly beneath the soothing caress of early morning sunlight. He watches his wild pet run, jump, roll back and forth with abandon in a nest of flattened grass to get Harry’s attention, yip at every dragonfly that zips from the water’s surface to tickle at his nose. 

Harry doesn’t think there’s anything in his life — human, canine or otherwise — that makes him smile the way Butler does. Or makes him or yell, or grumble for that matter. Or laugh, embrace, or adore. 

Harry may have rescued Butler from the shelter, on a whim after life threw him a curveball that hit him squarely in the chest and all but made him give up the game for good, but with every passing day, it becomes clearer and clearer that Butler’s the one who rescued  _Harry_. And he hates to sound like “one of those people,” but as far as he’s concerned, this fluffy red ball of affection looks out for him, cares for him, is there for him in a way none of the men of his past ever were. 

Butler is all he needs, he decides. Butler, and fresh paints, and a clean canvas. Sunlit mornings and breezes that tickle goosebumpy forearms where his sleeves are rolled to his elbows. Paws on his chest and lapping kisses on his cheek when it’s time to go home. It’s the perfect start any and every day, settles him right into the kind of calm, collected headspace he needs for his afternoon studio work and his late shifts at the gallery. It helps, to start the day off right. 

“Atta boy... that’s my boy,” he chuckles, nose-to-nose with his pup, scratching lovingly behind floppy red ears, after a particularly fine morning by the lake. “You know that, Butler-buddy? You’re all I need.” 

* * *

 “When’s the last time you even touched a guitar?” 

Niall wants to cast Louis a scowl, tell him to stop being ridiculous, tell him to quit making out like Niall’s avoiding the guitar on purpose, like he’s too wounded and sensitive to play guitar because it’ll be some kind of painful reminder. A reminder of a  _him_ that Niall has been trying tirelessly to forget. 

But Louis is right as rain. As always. And they both know it. 

“You know, it’s not like he invented the goddamn instrument.” 

Niall’s fingers move across the black and white keys, his head bobs in time with the melody, he ignores Louis shamelessly. 

“Oi! I know you can hear me ya tosser!” 

“HEY!” Niall snaps his hands away from the keys in the nick of time before Louis slams down the piano lid to get his attention, narrowly avoiding violent dismemberment right at Niall’s wrists. “What the  _hell,_ Lou?!” 

“Niall, you’ve  _got_ to stop running from every little thing that reminds you of him. You’re cheating yourself out of doing the stuff you love, the stuff you’re  _good at,_  because you’re afraid of memories. Memories can’t hurt you.  _He_ can’t hurt you. You’re only hurting yourself...” 

Niall hoists himself from the piano bench, out from where Louis is hovering over him with that overly concerned look in his eyes, as usual making things far too dramatic for Niall’s taste. “Lou, I don’t need you lecturin’ me about what he can and cannot do or what I should or should not do...” 

“Yes, actually, you do. If you didn’t, you’d still be playing the goddamn guitar.” 

“Give it a rest, will ye?!” 

At the peak of commotion there’s a light trotting coming down the hallway from Niall’s bedroom, and he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that right about now, a wet nose, kind eyes and floppy golden ears are peering around the corner into the sitting room. Even with complete quiet, Sheba always knows when Niall’s upset. And when there’s noise, she’s at his leg in a heartbeat. 

He can feel her there, head at his knee, willing him to tell her what’s wrong, and it makes him want to tell every human he’s ever known to leave him the hell alone, then hug her to his chest and let her warm him, comfort him, until the pain goes away. 

He wants to cry. 

But he can’t, because Louis is still here, and Niall is stubborn as all hell and has a point to prove. He meets Sheba’s concerned gaze, hears a quiet whine as her tail flitters back and forth. 

“M’alright, girl,” he murmurs, slowly squatting down to the floor where he can ruffle the matted fur beneath her collar. She whines again, calling his bluff. She’s good at that. He kisses the smooth top of her head. 

 _“_ I’m only saying all this because I care about you a whole fuckin’ lot, Nialler...” 

Louis sounds tired, and Niall’s sure he is, but he’s also sure that Louis is nowhere near as tired as he is.

Niall stands, grabs his keys from the kitchen counter and moves quickly to the door where he picks up Sheba’s leash. She comes without beckon, tongue waggling excitedly as Niall fishes for the metal link on her collar. 

“I know,” he says, avoiding Louis’ gaze, “but I just can’t do this right now. Not right now.” 

Exasperation laces Louis’ smoky rasp when he huffs, “Then  _when?”_

 _“_ I don’t know. But not now.” 

He clips Sheba’s leash and makes for the door when Louis is suddenly sprinting over to them, slamming a hand on the door to keep it shut. 

“Damnit, Louis—”

“Wait, just wait a goddamn second...” He’s tossing open the door to their coat closet then, shoving aside spring jackets and hoodies and boxes lining the ground until he’s yanking out a smaller bodied guitar in a black cloth case. Niall almost laughs in Louis’ face because of all the guitars he owns, he is  _least_ likely to give in to that specific guitar. For reasons that Louis is well aware. And yet, he’s holding it out before Niall, offering it up, like some kind of test. 

“Take it.” 

“No.” 

Niall reaches for the door again and Sheba trots forward, clearly just as done with all this nonsense as Niall is as she’s nothing if not loyal to him, but Louis pushes it firmly shut once again and continues to hold out the instrument in front of him. 

“Take the guitar, Niall.” 

“I don’t want it—” 

“I want to see you  _hold_  it—”

“I don’t  _want_  to hold it—”

“Take the guitar—”

“No—”

_“Just pick up the goddamn guitar!”_

_“FINE!”_

Niall violently snatches the bag by the strap from Louis’ hands and swings it over his back then forces open the door and hollers back with a salty sting in his voice that surprises even him, “There! I  _‘picked up’_ the goddamn guitar!” 

He regrets meeting Louis’ eyes even for the brief second that he does because he really looks hurt, but it doesn’t stop Niall from slamming the door and starting down the sidewalk with Sheba by his side... and with the goddamn guitar on his back. Great.

* * *

 Butler is nothing if not friendly, that’s for sure. But, he’s oftentimes (always) overzealous in his friendliness to the point that it can be off-putting to other people. Particularly elderly people, small children, people who are nervous by nature, owners of dogs, other dogs... 

Luckily most folks don’t seem to show up to this part of the park with their pups until right around the time Harry and Butler are packing up to leave. Even in the occasional case of overlap, anyone who’s been tackled to the ground by Harry’s fiery red setter simply moves to another area of the frankly enormous lakefront park, putting a safe distance between Butler’s boundless energy and their easily terrified teacup yorkies. (And yes, Harry  _usually_ catches Butler’s collar in time to spare them the attack of affection, but with the canvas propped in his lap, the brush in his hand and the paints by his side, he can’t always get there in time. Besides, Butler just wants to love everyone. And to be loved by everyone. He’s a good boy).

With a few minor confrontations under their belts already, Harry tries to keep sharply in tune with his little bud’s activities, even while focusing hard on that day’s project. Always an ear out, always a glance or two every few minutes. 

So he catches it immediately when there’s an enthusiastic series of barks and a howl of excitement toward a far end of the field, and he looks up to see red locks flopping in the wind as Butler sprints toward a fully grown golden retriever who appears on the mellower side for her breed. 

Harry’s mid-stroke and he’s off to a great start and can’t seem to find a graceful way to get up and over there before he’s sure to make contact with the retriever so he whistles loud and yells, “Oi Butler! C’mere bud!” Another whistle or two but it’s no use, and Harry’s wincing in preparation for the impact, but the retriever is friskier than she let on after all. Right as he’s barreling into her she’s pouncing out of the way, sending him rolling into a heap on the grass, then she’s prancing over to where he lay dazed and confused on his back, nosing at his neck until he’s up again and they’re chasing each other in short circles. 

“Whoooa, Sheba leave the poor bloke alone... Whoa!” 

The effervescent bundle of sleek golden fur runs back to an owner Harry hadn’t seen at first, who’s sat under the shade of a rustling linden tree. His stomach lurches to see Butler shamelessly throwing all 70 pounds of himself onto the young man’s lap, knocking him straight back onto the ground. 

He doesn’t want to have a liability on his hands, painting be damned, so he’s making to toss his painting and tools aside, to go and pull the dog off of him. But he realizes quickly that, for once, there won’t be any need. This lad doesn’t look off-put by the ambush at all. He’s smiling. Laughing. Digging his fingers affectionately into Butler’s fur, letting the dog lap at his glasses while he chuckles, “Where’d you come from, ye big fireball?” 

On cue, Butler hops off the boy’s lap and prances in Harry’s direction, the golden retriever hot on his tail. 

The boy under the tree props himself up on his elbows, laughing after the chase but looking just mildly wary as he clicks his tongue and calls out, “Sheba! Let him be!” 

It’s not long before the blur of red and gold leads his gaze straight to where Harry’s sat under his own tree, canvas still propped on his legs. 

“Sorry ‘bout him!” Harry calls, though gauging from the boy’s amused grin he’s certain there’s really no need to apologize. 

Sure enough the boy just waves it off with a smile, picks himself up, brushes off his jeans a bit, then leans back into the trunk of the tree. He settles there, legs outstretched and ankles crossed, arms folded. He watches the dogs as they run and jump, tackle and yip, chase each other the water’s edge and then back into the field, hardly pausing for a moment’s rest. 

Harry watches them too, for a while. And when he’s confident they’re proper friends, he turns his eyes back to the miniature treescape in front of him. 

It’s cloudier today, but the sky is bright blue in the patches where it’s visible among puffs of cumulus. The grass, trees and lake are alight then dim, alight then dim, as the clouds travel serenely across the sky. The result on today’s canvas is wet-on-wet of green melting into blue-grey, white and yellow highlights on the patches where rays of sunlight peek through the clouds and tousle blades of grass, the leaves of the linden tree, the light brown hair of the boy beneath it... 

He’s there, in the picture, before Harry even realizes what’s he’s doing. Just the tiny shape of a relaxed young man finessed with a pinpoint brush, a tuft of brown hair over blue jeans and a jumper...  _What color was it?_

Harry looks up, and feels a prickle of confusion. The boy doesn’t look quite as happy as he did just a little while ago. 

He gazes over the grass at the peppy golden pup... Sheba, he called her... his lips curl into what looks like an honest attempt at a smile, but he just can’t muster it. It’s then that Harry notices the boy’s hand, and how it’s resting on the edge of something on his other side, maybe a backpack, plucking absentmindedly at a loose strand or zipper. 

Funny how having Butler’s nose pop up unexpectedly in Harry’s line of vision still surprises him after all these months, but there it is — his ever-attention-seeking dog nuzzling into his painting, clearly wanting to add a stroke or two of his own. 

“All right, Picasso, go right ahead,” Harry concedes, and Butler’s thrilled to push his wet button nose right into one of Harry’s meticulously crafted cumulus clouds. 

“Huh. Actually looks better that way,” Harry muses, scratching the scruff of Butler’s chin as the dog snuffles proudly, tossing his ears from side to side. 

“Don’t go gettin’ a big head now... and hey, you gonna introduce me to your friend here?” 

The retriever nuzzles right up between Harry and Butler as if she’s known them her whole life, wanting to get a good look at the painting too. Harry tilts it up so she can get a full view, and brings a hand up to smooth over the fur on her silky back. She wags her tail happily, looking from painting, to Harry, to Butler, back to painting, back to Harry. 

“Sheba, that’s a lovely name,” he coos. She snorts in agreement and lets her tongue waggle out of her mouth, striking a pose. Harry exchanges a quick glance with Butler, and they both agree: This girl is easy to love. 

“Does our masterpiece meet your approval, m’lady?” 

She gives a little bark and props her paws on Harry’s lap, taps their noses together as he scratches her ears. 

“Well then, I’ve truly made it as an artist, haven’t I?” 

Butler gives a bark of triumph, always so supportive, and hops over Harry’s outstretched legs to make a run back toward the water. Sheba bounds off his lap in the same direction, ready for another chase to begin. 

Paintbrushes find shadow and shape and texture to add to the image, just for fun now, embellishing a painting that’s very well complete just as it is. But Harry’s paintings are never really done, he finds. And the longer his hand stays moving, the more often he spots things in the scenery he hasn’t seen before. They’re just little things, usually, like a single blossom on a pear tree, or a bluejay on the highest bough of an oak, or a cottontail who found its way to the water’s edge. Those little details often become his favorite parts.

He’s not sure when the music begins. Or how long he’s been listening to it, humming melody then harmony with the slow, delicate, hopeful chords that the breeze carries across the field to his ears. But at some point, as the sun rises high, and the clouds begin to give way to that vibrant blue they’ve been hiding all morning, he realizes that it isn’t just in his head. That there is music, and he’s humming along, though he can’t place the tune. 

Up from the canvas his eyes are lifted, landing first on the curly red dog splayed comfortably on his belly with a shiny golden pup settled likewise just beside him, then traveling further up the hill, under the linden tree, where Sheba’s boy sits with a guitar in his lap, strumming a kind of longing tune in a warm major key as he looks out over the shining lake before them. 

* * *

Niall keeps the guitar in the trunk of his car, because he doesn’t want Louis to know he’s been playing it. He hates when Louis wins. 

But Louis will probably find out somehow. Or if he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care anymore because Niall seems like he’s getting better regardless. Niall’s not trying to hide that part of it. 

He knows Louis is only overbearing because he cares. Knows he only butts into everything because Niall is the little brother he never had. And Niall lets him poke and prod, let’s him worry, then tells him to shove off only to apologize a day later and hug him way too hard until they’re both laughing and forgiving each other. Because Louis is the older brother Niall  _wishes_ he’d had. 

Niall’s been starting to go out again. Meeting up with their friends, striking up conversations with Louis again for regular chats about nothing in particular. 

He’s not exactly sure why it suddenly feels like the curtains are being lifted, like the sun is finally starting to shine through again, albeit timidly. The guitar is definitely a part of it. Dusting off that old Epiphone, using it to play new songs, even writing some of his own. Never to play their old ones. And when Niall is feeling particularly empowered, he’ll play the songs that his former duet ‘partner’ never liked; songs that Niall had pretended to dislike, just to please  _him_. 

Niall doesn’t have to pretend anymore. Can be who he wants to be, play the songs he wants to play. That’s part of this newfound contentedness, for sure. 

The other part is more elusive, but Niall has the feeling it’s something to do with starting a new routine. One that no past love of his has ever been a part of. It’s just something special between him, and Sheba. And, of course, the floppy-furred red dog — Butler, he was called — and the dark-haired painter with the messy bun and kind smile. 

It’s a daily trip they take now, almost without fail. Sheba sometimes beats Niall to the front door on those crisp early mornings, picking up her leash and carrying it over to Niall with a wagging tail as he chuckles, shushes her quietly so they don’t wake Louis while he finishes lacing up his shoes and pulls on a light jacket. 

He pulls the guitar from his trunk, slings it over his shoulder, and off they set toward Lakeview Park. They only make one stop along the route at a quaint little coffee shop at eight o’clock sharp, for Niall to grab some hot tea for the journey. As autumn awakens with a slow, steady yawn, the air is just chilly enough to warrant a warm beverage for a morning outdoors. 

He’s hardly even spoken to the boy who sits far across the grass. They holler to each other now and again to apologize if it looks like their respective pets are getting a bit too rowdy, or call out to ask, “They behaving themselves?” or to affectionately scold, “All right Sheebs, back down a bit, he can’t paint with your nose up in his palette,” or “C’mere Butler, let him play his music and if he needs a vocalist, I’m sure he’ll ask you!” 

It never quite gets beyond this. But almost every morning, they see each other from all those meters away, nod or wave with a smile in greeting. Niall unclips Sheba’s leash and she runs with reckless abandon toward her new friend, and they have their own little joust to see who can knock each other to the ground first. It never fails to make Niall laugh, and from the few glances he’s stolen, he thinks it’s safe to say the same about Butler’s boy. 

He’s worried the music might disturb the other lad, the first day he winds up at Lakeview Park. Or at least, that is one of the limp excuses that flitters through his mind when he wracks his brain for a list of every possible reason for him  _not_ to play that guitar. But sometime there in the shade of the linden tree, just after Butler and Sheba run off to play, Niall can no longer deny how much he misses the way his fingers would sting from playing so long. How much he misses being able to fill the air around him with a kind of language that allows him to say all of the things he just can’t find the words for.

Fear of the memories it would stir glides over him like those clouds above, bringing with it a momentary chill and a dim grey shadow. But the memory of the music itself... of the pride he felt when he first played a barre chord with no quiver, the incredible satisfaction of finding the rhythm between strumming and vocals... it ultimately wins over. After that, not a day does by that he doesn’t pull out the guitar for a song after sending Sheba off into the grass. 

It doesn’t seem to bother the boy at all. 

From the couple of looks Niall sneaks (he just doesn’t want him to think he’s staring, since they don’t really know each other), it looks like he might be enjoying it. Might be swaying his head along with the melody, might be moving his brushstroke to the same rhythm. 

In any case, seeing Sheba become bright and bubbly around her new buddy fills Niall with a pleasant kind of warmth. The dogs stick together like glue, chasing the same dragonflies, rolling in the same matted nests of grass, barking up the same trees and even paying visits to their respective owners together. Niall thinks it’s the cutest thing, really, but come time to leave, it poses an amusing little struggle. Whichever owner they happen to be with come time to go will leash up his pup, while the other is stuck hollering and whistling from afar, until the dog  _finally_ admits defeat and answer the call. A couple of times, it almost...  _almost..._ gets to the point where Niall has to make his way down the hill and across the field to actually  _retrieve_  his retriever. And vice versa for the painter and his setter. But the owners always seem to win out in the end, much to the (temporary) disgruntlement of their pets. 

First its a week, then two, then three. Niall forgot how fast time could go when he filled his days with music. 

It feels so  _good_  to be making music on his guitar again. It wraps Niall in the confidence and optimism that makes for great days of class, bearable shifts at the pub and, nowadays, even a well-received solo gig here and there. He’s locking down more gigs now as a soloist than he ever did as a duo, and with better crowds. 

Louis of course finds out quick as ever that Niall has taken his advice and picked up guitar again after all. But he doesn’t even say ‘I told you so.’ Just flicks Niall’s ear when he’s not looking, then wraps him up in a hug before he can even pick a playful fight. 

* * *

Harry knows something is off the moment he comes to his senses, because Butler’s slobbery tongue is jostling him awake, instead of his alarm clock. 

Stifling a yawn, eyes squinting against more sunlight than he’s used to at his regular wake-up time, Harry gently elbows the dog off of his chest and pats around his nightstand blindly for his phone. Snatching it up, he taps the home button and groans loud enough that Butler startles and hops off the bed. 

"Jesus bud, how’d I sleep until half past seven?!” Harry  _never_ sleeps later than seven, has been incredibly diligent in his schedule and hates to break a good streak, it can throw off a whole day. 

The pup bounds back onto the duvet and is bouncing about the bed now, snuffling and showering him with kisses, and whining under his breath. It’s not unusual for Butler to be hyper in general... but it’s definitely unusual to jostle Harry like this while he’s still in bed. “Easy... shhhh... gimme a second, here, bud... what the heck you all riled up about?” 

Through one open eye he spies his alarm clock gone completely dark... mumbles to himself in confusion as he props himself up to peek over at the electrical outlet. Sure enough, the plug’s been pulled out. “The hell...? Must’ve... stepped on it... on my way to bed, or something...” 

As he’s hoisting himself from the mattress, Butler begins a jolly little prance about the room. Presumably he’d been highly concerned that he wouldn’t get his morning workout today, so Harry just chuckles and scratches his neck, pats his back and makes his way blindly into the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

“Holy-!”

For whatever reason the dog still feels like celebrating, and Harry nearly topples right into the tub as the Butler skids across the tile after him, crashing right into his legs with a never-ending string of excited yips and flaps of his curly tail. 

“Sheesh bud, I know... I know... I’m gettin’ dressed in a second, we’ll be out the door in no time, all right? What’re you in such a hurry for, ya nut?” 

* * *

“Sheba, calm down love, c’mere darlin,” Niall’s knelt by the door, leash in hand, in equal parts amused and confused by Sheba’s behavior this morning. She definitely beat him to the door today — by about twenty minutes. She’s been hopping to and fro like a jackrabbit and had started yipping at him the second he’d gotten out of the shower. 

He barely has his shoes tied before she’s running circles round and round him, tossing her front paws in the air and patting at his arms, chest, shoulders... 

“If Louis gave you more coffee-coated sugar cubes last night, I swear to God I’ll kill him— WHOA!”

The second the front door is open she is positively yanking him outside, and he just manages to lock the door before she’s leading the way down the sidewalk, en route like always but at an inexplicably speedy pace... 

“All righty then, off to the races apparently...  _Yeesh,_ Sheebs... Sheebs, slow down!” 

* * *

When they finally arrive at the cafe, Butler plants his feet right outside the door and begins glancing side-to-side, like he’s on the prowl for something that should be approaching any second. Could be the sound or sent of a squirrel, Harry’s used to those hunter instincts kicking in at inopportune times, but he’s trained him decently well to come when he’s called. 

“Butler, bud... c’mon boy!” 

He gives the leash a tug toward the door but Butler stays put, even gives a tiny yelp of protestation, which is not like him in the slightest. He may be high-strung, but when they’re one-on-one like this, he’s usually quite obedient. 

“Butler. Come!” 

A whimper, and the saddest puppy dog eyes Harry has ever seen in his life. 

He’d have been lying if he said a twinge of guilt didn’t sting his heart, but it’s darn chilly outside and Harry could  _really_ use that cup of coffee, considering the whacked-out start this day is off to. He sighs, mumbles an apology and grips Butler’s collar to pull him, gently as possible while still getting him to obey, into the cafe. A soft cry  _really_ tugs at Harry’s heart, but he gets him inside and is greeted by the usual peppy baristas. 

“Mornin’ Harry!” the petite blonde one says, as she starts to prepare his regular order. “You’re later than usual today, didn’t think you were going to come by.”

“Hey, Perrie. Yeah, my alarm didn’t go off this morning, weirdly...” Harry says, trying to afford her the social graces he always does, but he’s distracted by the fact that Butler is  _still_ edging toward the door, seemingly trying to peer out the window at something. And he’s still weirded out by the fact this alarm clock was  _unplugged_ this morning....

“And mornin’ to you too, Mr. Butler,” Perrie coos down at the dog, who plants his bottom firmly on the floor and huffs a frustrated sigh. 

“Yikes, what’s with him today?” she asks, filling Harry’s cup. 

“That’s an excellent question,” Harry sighs, sliding the cash and a few extra dollars over the counter. “He’s been acting so wild all morning! I mean don’t get me wrong, he’s always been a bit of a wild one...” 

Perrie grins, slides Harry his coffee and lifts the lid off the giant glass biscotti jar, per their occasional indulgence. 

“... but I don’t know  _what_ in particular has gotten into him today. Not sure if I’m walking him, he’s walking me, or what,” he smirks. 

“Well, this oughta cheer him right up,” she smiles, breaking off a bit of biscotti from the one she plucked from the jar. “When’s he ever said no to his favorite breakfast treat?” 

Harry hums excitedly after a calming sip of scalding coffee, and looks down at his pet to incite a reaction to the treat. “Hmmm... look at that, bub... can’t keep your eyes off that now, can ya?” 

Apparently, he can, and he  _is._ The moment she holds out the morsel for him to take he snaps his head in the complete opposite direction, pointing his nose toward the cafe door and startling the whole staff with a boisterous bark. 

“Butler! Hush!” He gives the leash a tug and quickly gives Perrie an apologetic look, “I’m really sorry, I have  _no_ idea what’s gotten into him today— BUTLER!” 

Harry is  _definitely_ the one being walked now, though it’s more like dragged as Butler slams his way headfirst through the cafe door, snapping the jinglebell on its top clean off and sending it flying over the counter as a baffled and highly apologetic-looking Harry trails helplessly behind him, breezing through the door and down the front step and onto the sidewalk and—

“WHOA!” 

“HEY!” 

He collides  _dead on_ with another human being, hot coffee exploding out from his cup at the impact and spraying the entire scene just before he can back up enough to see the man’s face and begin apologizing profusely, “Oh my  _God,_ I am so  _so_ sorry—”

“No, no  _I’m_ sorry—”

There are frantic apologies and steadying hands and splattered coffee, and double the barking suddenly as Harry now sees  _two_ frenzied furballs scampering in circles around the scene and making enough noise to wake the whole goddamn block. 

“I honestly don’t know  _what’s_  gotten into him—”

“I have no  _idea_  know what’sgotten into her—”

Their eyes meet. Harry recognizes him instantly. Recognizes glasses and stubble and wispy brown hair. And judging by the stunned look on the young man’s face, he recognizes Harry just as well. There’s swoop somewhere deep in Harry’s belly like he’s just gone off the first drop of a rollercoaster and he gasps, suddenly aware of how inappropriately close they are, just an inch or so away from being pressed together at the hips, Harry’s hands still gripping the man’s upper arms after having cushioned the collision. Blue eyes stare back at him, bewildered, unsure of what to do next. 

“I... sorry,  _sorry,_  let me just...” 

“Yeah, no, it’s fine...” 

Harry begins to shift his weight backward, to take a step away from the scene and put some goshdarn  _space_  between them when he realizes in horror that there’s something pulled taught across the backs of his calfs, keeping his legs firmly in place while the rest of his body tips steadily backwards in a straight plummet toward cold hard concrete, “Whoa, whoa,  _WHOA_!” 

“Wait  _wait_ I’ve got ye— AH!” 

Had a giant red fluffball of mischief not been standing right behind them as they toppled in a screaming heap to the ground, Harry is certain that his skull would have cracked right open and he’d have been dead on impact and maybe he’d have preferred that to the pure humiliation burning at his cheeks when he and this poor lad — whose legs too appear to be twisted into a tangle of leashes — are lying flush against each other on the front stoop of a coffee shop on a Tuesday morning. 

“Jesus,  _Christ_ , I... I am so sorry about this... I really... I don’t how they got us like this...” 

Harry’s flush only deepens when he meets those blue eyes again, this time hovering directly above him as they’re nearly nose-to-nose, and he’s not sure why, but he begins to laugh. Maybe because it’s the only thing left to do, now, as he’s basically flat on his back, getting straddled by a stranger in public, with two suspiciously proud-looking pups watching the madness unfold from either side.

“Oh, I don’t know about yours,” Harry says, propping himself up a little, hoping to lighten the boy’s still clearly frazzled mood by assuring him through shrugs and banter that he’s not mad, that they’ll get out of this, they’ll fix this, “but mine  _definitely_ knew what he was doing when he dragged me outta the house this morning.” 

Harry’s relieved when the boy bites his lip to hide a smile. His hands are shaking though, roaming Harry’s chest and shoulders as he tries to separate the two of them, stammering unintelligibly as Harry attempts to steady them, and somehow manages to tip them onto their side so that at least they aren’t in a straddleanymore. 

“Funny you should say that,” the lad chuckles, sitting up, then sliding an arm under Harry’s back to help him sit up as well, his other hand gently patting at the back of Harry’s head questioningly, checking if he’s okay after taking such a tumble. “Because I could be wrong, but... I’m pretty sure this ole girl knew  _exactly_ what she was doing too...” 

He shoots the golden retriever a scowl, and Harry secretly delights to notice that he’s not the only one with vibrant blush creeping into his cheeks. 

"You know, I want to be mad,” Harry continues with a shake of the head, reaching down to tug at where their legs are tied with the precision and tightness of a skillfully planned hostage situation, “but at the end of the day I think I’m just... really fuckin’ impressed.” 

An unexpected comfort spreads throughout Harry’s entire body at the sound of Niall’s laugh. It’s loud and shameless, and something Harry thinks he’d like to hear again.

“Hey, um... I guess there’ll never be a better time, so...” 

Harry extends a hand, which feels ridiculous as they’re literally sat hip-to-hip but he doesn’t care at all anymore. 

“I’m Harry.” 

The lad takes his hand gratefully, smiles, “Hi, Harry. I’m Niall. And I think you know Sheba.” 

Niall nods in her direction and Sheba takes the cue to circle them from behind and nuzzle right into Harry’s nose, greeting him with a kiss or two. He catches Niall’s eyes positively glowing when he kisses her back, scratches her soft golden mane. 

“And if I’m not mistaken you know ole Butler, here.” 

The red setter barks in agreement, bounces forward to plant his paws on Niall’s lap and bask in the love Niall gives him, tickling his chin and bopping noses. 

“Soooo...” Harry rocks and back and forth on his bottom a second, because no one’s mad and no one’s hurt, and that’s good, but... they’re still tied at the ankles. And it’s gonna take some serious work to get out of this. 

So he smirks, knocks his head toward the storefront and laughs, “Can I get you a coffee?” 

Niall busts out laughing again and Harry feels fondness bubble up inside him. Niall scoffs then, and nods toward the exploded cup now lying empty a few feet away. “I think I should buy  _you_ a coffee.” 

Harry waves him off kindly, “Nah... that’s  _their_ fault,” he points his gaze to the dogs, who are standing side-by-side, tails wagging, look prouder than ever now, “not yours.” 

Niall shakes his head as he looks from Sheba, to Butler, and back to Harry. He sighs, concedes, and smiles, “Guess I can’t argue with that.” 


End file.
